Photo Walk

After 2 hard days of skiing, I set out for the river near my family's cabin in Packwood, Washington, legs tired and fingers numb. Just a minute or so walk away from our haven in the woods, the trees open up to reveal a vast riverbed. Tall trees conquered by the rushing floods of the Cowlitz in the spring pepper the riverbank, gnarled roots exposed to the frigid winds. All of these photos likely look the same to many of you, shot after shot of brown and dark green woods with a light dusting of snow. But, in fact, each of these are something entirely different to me. Maybe because I am hyper aware of my surrounding and any change in them, but more likely because of the many years I have spent exploring these woods and riverbeds with my brothers.

I came across a little clearing that Seth and I dubbed "Walk Like an Indian Campground." When we were little, my brothers always instructed me to "walk like an Indian" during our voyages through the moss-covered groves. Not to make a noise, step on a twig, brush up against a leaf. And I, the recalcitrant girl that I was (and am), always questioned them. Whats the point of exploring, adventuring, living if I don't leave my mark behind, to be remembered by those to come? I would stomp through the woods, twigs breaking helplessly under my velcro skechers. But I realized something the other day. This world is more beautiful than anything I could ever hope to leave behind. In fact, I can't picture myself making a single improvement to the wild beauty and freedom of this place. I don't want to leave my mark on this wood, I want to respect and enjoy it without corrupting one of the few things that seems, well, natural in my life. Its like climbing mountains, or skiing a really hard line--you don't "conquer" the mountain (a mentality that I have set out with more than once). Rather, I have respect for the mountain's danger, strength, and grandeur, and hope and pray that it respects my attempts to enjoy that grandeur in the best waysI know how.

Honestly, people kind of suck sometimes. Let's compare: the Miller Lite can nestled in the well of a grand old tree, blue and silver aluminum adding nicely to the rich pallette of green and brown, or the gigantic beaver dam, an indication of the intelligence, strength, determination, and organization in nature. Which would you rather leave behind? I don't want to touch these woods. I want to respect their wildness, I want to enjoy their beauty, I want to walk like an Indian.

Don't get me wrong--I've always been the type of girl who wants to be remembered, to make her mark on the world. But not here, not in the woods, not someplace thats already perfect. No, the girl in the woods, the girl who doeasn't wear makeup, has a compulsive need to keep up with the boys, plays in the dirt, skins her knees, and is an awesome shot with a slingshot, she doesn't leave a mark. The girl in the city, the girl in heels, with an insatiable appetite for fashion magazines, who knows way too much about pop culture, and uses more than 5 adjectives to order her coffee--she won't hesitate to leave a mark on those city streets, because that home of hers isn't perfect, and she won't rest until she's done all she can to make it just as wonderful, wild, free, lovely, perfect as the woods she grew up in.

I'm scared. I'm scared of leaving these woods behind. I don't want to lose the girl in the woods. I don't want to lose my passion for the outdoors, the inexplicable power a beautiful sunset at the cove has to clear my head, the feeling of flying through the trees, skis buried in knee-deep powder, and simply letting go. these pictures look cold, unwelcoming. Some of them seem as if they were taken in black and white, the colors are so

bleak. But these woods, this riverbed, is welcoming, comforting, and warm. Memories flood my head--getting trapped in a whirlpool at the base of a tree in a yellow rubber raft, paddling and laughing and screaming for dear life, the bottom of that yellow raft falling out on us while lazily floating along, a brother's trick that left me standing barefoot in a pile of elk pellets, dams built, towers knocked down, frigid swims, hot days, burying ourselves in mud, finding pools so beautiful we pretended that we were in Lord of the Rings. My life has been idyllic thus far, so much that it scares me sometimes. I'm afraid of losing the joy, passion, and vibrancy of my childhood when I face the real world. And frankly, the idea of living in a concrete jungle freaks me out a little bit. Sometimes I just want to escape and live in a little cabin in a ski town and play outside my entire life. But I know that I have so much more potential, and I would kick myself for eternity if I wasted the gifts I have been blessed with because I am afraid of going out of my comfort zone, afraid of being away from sunsets, mountains, snow, rain, trees, rivers, oceans. I have to trust that God is just as present in the city sidewalks as he is in the wide open sky, and that I can find myself just as well in the library of a university as I can atop a mountain. Just like jumping off a cliff, taking a breath and skiing off that ridge, running for miles--I have to let go. But before I do, just one more look at the riverbank, dusted in snow.